


The Good, The Bad, And the (Not) Ugly

by Percy_Anthony



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Deadlock McCree, Gang Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Underage Substance Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percy_Anthony/pseuds/Percy_Anthony
Summary: A musing of Mccree's life from childhood to the Deadlock gang all the ways up to right before Overwatch is recalled. Mccree's view of his life and how he's changed, and who he intends to be.Based on a lot of my personal headcanons about Mccree so prepare for probable inaccuracies. Tags will be updated with new chapters.





	1. Childhood

_I don't remember a lot from my childhood. No fear of spiders, or dreams of being a pilot or a hero. Just one brat kid trying to stay alive. No mama, no papa, no nothin'. Most people just knew me as the dirty street rat running around stealing fruit from their stores, or picking their pockets for change. There were a lot of us like that in those days. The most trouble I ever got into with the cops was little lectures about cleaning up my act; I guess with so many kids running around doing the same thing they got tired of trying to get it to stop. Not like any of us had parents to slap us on the wrist._

The hot afternoon sun beat down upon the town. The lucky people had hats to shield their faces or were locked up tight in homes and stores blasting AC units older than they were. Jesse, though, relied simply on the protection of his dirty hair. Just long enough to cover the back of his neck and shield his eyes slightly. Truthfully, it didn't help much, if the angry redness on his nose and cheeks was anything to go by. Shoe-less he walked the streets. Most people didn't look at him letting him pass by them like a shadow. All quick to ignore the unhappy truth about the children who littered the streets of their dusty town. Orphans were a symptom of war, and the only cure they had was to ignore them like an embarrassing rash. Jesse didn't mind, the less people who noticed him, the easier it was for him to do what he needed to do. 

Dirt covered hands quickly slipping into an unlatched purse, swiping the coins inside and darting away before the prim and proper lady who owned the purse noticed the "rat" in her midst. He never managed to lift quite enough money to buy everything he needed, but he always felt so satisfied when he had enough to buy an ice cold soda. The friendly man at the general store would sell him one frosty bottle and then he'd run back to the abandoned, run-down barn he was using as a home and suck the whole drink down. The part of him that wanted to savor the drink overpowered by the part that was convinced that if anyone saw him with it they'd take it away. He earned this. It was his. No one would take it from him. Once the bottle was empty, he'd hide his left over money, if any, in the dusty hay and then run back to the streets to start working for next soda. The new bottle lined up on the window sill, the glass reflecting the light in ways that seemed like magic to him.  
  
Stealing outright from stores, though, he only ever took what he needed most: food. He's thought about stealing medicine, but when he has been sick he was either to tired to go to town or he didn't know what he was supposed to take. Medicine was a luxury he didn't have time for. So food. Never had enough of that. Never could take enough without being caught. It was easy to slip into stores, walking just behind a woman with a large skirt to mask his entrance, but much harder to resist the urge to stuff his pants pockets to the brim. While customers haggled with the shopkeeper he'd grab enough tiny food packets that wouldn't show on his way out and he'd leave again. Trying not to catch the eye of the shop owner who was no doubt annoyed they'd have to clean up the dirty footprints he left behind.  
  
The few times he did get caught, he only got a swift swat from the shop owner in question and an annoyed look from the local police. Most likely from the cop who had busted him last time, and who'd dealt with kids lifting food from shops all day.   
  
"Don't let me catch you again", they'd say.

"Yessir", he'd say.  
  
And then back at the barn, next to the burned down remains of a house he vaguely remembers living in, he'd scarf down the scraps of food and plan to steal from a different shop tomorrow morning. While at night he'd watch the stars light reflect of his bottle collection onto the only decoration in the little barn. A newspaper clipping he'd pulled from the trash, it was water stained but the powerful photo still shined despite the flaws. 'Overwatch saves the day' or something like that, with a picture of three people standing proud and tall. A blonde man, a woman with a facial tattoo and a guy with a beard. Heroes that Jesse heard about all the time while he was waiting for the right moment to slip a man's wallet out of his pocket.  
  
He couldn't wait for them to get to his city and save the day here. 

* * *

 _Years of running around the streets had earned me a reputation, but most people thought of me as harmless. "Don't mind Jesse" they'd tell the one tourist we got each year "Just keep your wallet in your breast pocket and you'll be fine". Like I was nothing more than a fly - maybe I was, maybe I still am. Over the years I got worse. The first posters of me were ones banning me from stores, and then ones in the police station asking "have you seen this man?". I was 11 when people started to refer to me as a man. When I started breaking into stores and emptying tills, and into houses and finding dusty jewelry boxes._  
  
The very first time Jesse robbed a store, legitimately robbed it as in breaking in at night and taking what he wanted, he'd been terrified. Instead of the rolling sun above and the ever present hum of daily life, he was engulfed in the night. Chill winds kissing his sun burned skin, caressing his muddy brown hair, encouraging him to do what he needed to do. He was just tired of dealing with blankets far to small for his lanky limbs, blankets to thin to protect against the freezing desert nights. Dealing without shoes, his blackened feet the source of many disgusted looks from locals and otherwise. Clothes to small, face to burned, stomach far to empty. And the pickings of a child wouldn't keep him alive anymore.  
  
What he was more terrified of, was just how good he was at breaking into places. Somewhere along the way, slipping into stores unnoticed during the day translated into being able to slip into them at night as well. The first time he robbed a store, it was for essentials, and he was so very careful to stay quiet. As if he was afraid his own heart would give him away as he slipped through the storage room window, which he was only able to reach thanks to a well placed water barrel. He'd never gone into this store before, it sold clothing, shoes, hats. All of which only added to the growing echo in his head "you're not supposed to be here". Each creak of the floorboards stopped his heart and sucked the breath from his lungs, but he kept going. Rain and storms would come soon and there was a voice in his soul that said if he didn't do something - this stormy season would be his last.   
  
Jesse kept it simple, working around the store like a snake in the sand and his old barn sack in hand. A blanket, thick and warm came first - his hands ran over the surface of a lush pillow in want, but a sound from the outside made him rip his hand away from the object like it was fire and he left the pillow where it was. The sound had been nothing truly, but it only made Jesse's bones ache with more anxiety. So he continued, he stripped his threadbare clothes off and stuffed them in his sack and quickly put on some new clothes. Shocked by just how stiff and clean they felt he allowed himself a few moments in the mirror to admire them. The jeans were far too long and plaid shirt far too big, but he didn't want to do this often and took them several sizes larger to make them last. He tied knots in the fabric to hold it in place, and swore to secure it further with the old twine back at the barn. For now, he stuffed a second set of clothes in his sack - an action so luxurious and foreign to Jesse. Two outfits, one to wear when the other got to ripped up - what a dream.   
  
Lastly, he arrived at the shoes. He grabbed the simplest thing at first, shoes that would no doubt be worn out in a few days of his climbing and running around. How did people deal with that? Did they just buy new shoes every few months? The price tag attached to the shoes would be the equivalent of buying food for a good long time, it baffled him that people would do that. He'd never learned to read, but numbers he could do. Numbers meant everything and while the number on the shoes was impressive they wouldn't do. He almost thought about continuing to forgo footwear until he saw them. An understated pair of boots, work boots. Dark brown in color and strong looking, they almost promised to last Jesse forever. The leering price tag seemed to mock him, "You don't deserve these, these are for the good people". It took the howl of a distant coyote for him to snatch up the boots. Grabbing some socks he threw the whole lot in his sack and ran to exit back out the storage room window. Just as he was climbing out the window, though, he saw it. Jesse paused his escape just to stare at it. A single hat, lone on the top of the shelf. He wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been currently climbing out a window.   
  
Hats were the ultimate luxury, they shielded the wearers face from the burning sun. Preventing the pathetic peeling of skin that came with the burned areas. It was like a hunger had overcome Jesse when he saw the hat, there upon the top shelf of the storage room, dusty and forgotten. No one would miss it. It was ugly, honestly - but he in a moment of selfish desire he snatched it up and was gone.  
  
Immediately, people knew what had happened. No amount of rolling in the dirt to mask the new clothes tricked the eyes of the people on the streets. Streets he avoided for a few days despite his gnawing stomach pains just to shake off the initial shock of what he'd done. When he finally came back, people stood further from him, walked in large arcs to avoid him. Everyone knew. For some reason that only served to make him angry. They were just like the voices in his head who mocked him each night for thinking he deserved a warm blanket. He just wanted to live, why was that so wrong. Still with all the eyes on him now, Jesse elected to take his food at night when no one could watch him.

Time marched on despite his little robbery and it was only when he made a visit to his soda shop that he realized just how different his world had become. The shop owner didn't let him in - nothing more than that, but the man shook his head and the message was clear. No more ice cold sodas bought from the pick pocketed change of the townspeople. Jesse wasn't allowed the same freedoms the other street kids were. Now he realized, though, that there seemed to be a lot less street kids around. Where had they all gone? Did they grow up too?  
  
The anger ate Jesse from the inside out. To many eyes watching him during the day forced him to hang around the streets at night, the hat now more of a symbol than an object to shield him from the sun. He slept through the day and worked the night. He got better and better at his new "job". He learned to pick a lock faster than a cop could make his rounds down the main street, he could fit through a dog door and take what he wanted from houses without a sound. Soon enough he took more than what he needed, and took what he could sell. Everyone knew there was a pawn shop in the seediest part of town that wouldn't ask where you got what you were selling - and if you were Jesse, that was just what you needed.

What to do with the money was another question - but the age old conflict of man answered that. Hunger. There was a diner away from the city who either didn't know about Jesse's reputation or didn't care. So he ate there. The first time he walked all the ways out there was also the first time he could remember his belly being full. He paid no mind to the crowd of people dressed in leather who was always in the diner, all he cared about was eating.

It was when the posters went up that his life really took a tumble. When they went up his Overwatch clipping came down - the illusion of heroes coming to save the day long since dead. 'Have you seen this man?'

 He almost didn't realize the poster was of him until he spotted the police walking towards him with intent in their steps. With a smirk he waved at them. And ran.

* * *

_The area I "grew up" in had been forgotten by the heroes of the world, but that didn't mean the halfwit bad guys had forgotten about us too. It just took them longer to take a hold of us, and by the time they had - it was too late for anyone to do much of anything. It didn't take long for me to pick the pocket of the wrong man. A crowded diner was usually the best place to earn some extra eatin' money, too bad I realized I'd picked the wrong pocket too late and I was suddenly at the mercy of a man either way to forgiving or way more sadistic then I'd assumed at the time.  
_

He'd become a regular at the diner on Route 66. It being the only place that'd serve him, it was inevitable. One night he found himself short on cash and he wasn't intending on not eating, now that he knew what being full felt like he wasn't about to invite the pains of hunger back just yet. But the town had been getting smart. No more dog doors, tighter locks, and convenient lights that lit up every good path into homes and stores made it a little more difficult to get what he needed. It wasn't just him either. 

Red skulls spray painted on houses and store fronts marked a new player. He'd learned to steer clear of places they'd hit, the territory lines were all too clear. Jesse wasn't exactly sure who they, the whispers about them almost to quiet for even a fly like him to hear. Still, he was a hungry guy and he knew his bill for his usual meal. Just a few dollars and he'd be set. 

So as he walked up to the diner he spied a few men smoking on the side of the joint. Leather clad and rough, all looking to the man leaned up against the wooden fence like he was God himself. It was a risk, but he never claimed to be a mastermind. Jesse was quiet, pulling up the dirty red bandanna over his face - something he'd picked up to deter cops from recognizing him when the posters calling for his arrest got more serious. 

"What about the little pop shop? They haven't been paying either have they?"

"Hit 'em hard, and make sure the whole town knows what happened. Pretty soon we'll have 'em all in our pocket."

Jesse didn't know what they were talking about, but he was about to be in this guys pocket. Unwashed fingers slipped deftly into the pocket, masked by shadows, the man was none the wiser. The wallet slid out smoothly, but just as Jesse was about to reap his reward a hand grasped around his wrist and pulled him through the fence roughly. His body banged against the wood before he was harshly thrown to the ground. His hat falling away from him but before he could reach for it guns clicked in unison as each man aimed their piece at him. 

There was a fact about the game Jesse played. One day, it will catch up with you. One day someone comes calling your name. He just never expected it to be so early and to be because of something as pathetic as pick pocketing. 

"Weeell, lookee here boys" the bandanna was ripped from his face, "the little street rat that's been giving the cops a hard time. What was the name? Jessica McKenzie?"

"Jesse Mccree." He snapped, mouth running before his mind remembered you don't talk back to people with guns. The smack to the back of his head a reminder of that.

"Well, Mccree, either you're really good or the cops are really bad. Which is it?"

That was the first time someone called him by his last name. And as the man talked, the difference in power became clear to Jesse. The nonchalant attitutude he treated Jesse with, like he couldn't decide whether to let him live or die, filled him with fear. Fear turned to awe as he watched the man simply wave away his armed men, the group walking off to the diner. Awe turned to respect as the man pulled him up off the ground and invited Jesse to eat with him.

A lot of firsts happened that night. His first drink (he gagged), his first cigarette (he choked), his first meal with a group of people (he laughed). By the end of the night he'd been invited to join them, and then the red skulls made too much sense. By the time he realized who they were it was to late to back out, because you don't refuse the hospitality of a man you just tried to rob - especially if he has a diner full of armed men at his disposal.

The Deadlocks. A new game had just begun.

* * *

_Never did rightly decide if that turning point in my life was me being in the wrong place at the wrong time; or the right place at the right time. Back then, I'd wrongly assumed the heroes had finally come for me. That it was my turn to take charge of my life and do something in the world. Well the second part wasn't wrong, I did do something in the world, but the Deadlock gang sure as hell weren't heroes - the only thing they did for me was give me a six shooter and a direction to point it._

Jesse moved out of the barn and into a shack at the edge of town, not the main Deadlock hideout but the one where members overseeing Jesse's town stayed. It was technically a bike garage with a tiny shack attached to it, but it was better than where he'd come from. Motorcycles came and went at all hours of the night, and Jesse made a smart decision to not asking where they were going all the time. He concerned himself with little corner of the basement he had to himself, but it wasn't as if he had much to decorate the dirty spot with. Still, life had gotten better: he slept inside, he had more blankets, he had food. He had people. Deadlock couldn't be the worst thing in the world, they came for him when Overwatch didn't.

He should have known, though, that a reputation isn't enough to impress a gang leader. You had to earn your keep, make yourself useful. And a gang isn't interested in the profits of pick pocketing and cat burglary. It took less than a month for it to become clear that Jesse had no idea how to play the game he'd joined. The boss handed him a rusty six shooter one night and said to follow him. He felt out of place, a boy among men on a mission. With a gun far to big in his hands Jesse followed the group of gang members into the night and he dreaded finding out where they were headed.

Memories of ice cold soda flooded his mind as they arrived at the shop he used to frequent. Before he could ask anything the gang leader kicked the flimsy door in, the friendly little door bell crying out in protest. Like a dust storm they forced themselves into the storefront just as the owner rushed downstairs to find out what happened. He seemed shocked to see Jesse there.

"Jesse what are you doing - "

The gang leader knocked him to the ground before he could say anything. Wordlessly the boss ordered to gang members to hold the owner up, one at each side holding him still. The gun felt heavy in Jesse's hands as the boss moved behind him - pushing him forward to the man.

"Time to prove yourself boy, time to be a real man."

Time to join the Deadlocks. Jesse rushed his mind to justify this mans fate. He hadn't been paying his dues, he disrespected the gang. Poor excuse after poor excuse flicked through his mind. He knew the real reason, though, he liked not being hungry. And the gun barrel pressed to the back of his own head was motivation enough. There was no choice here.

That was the first time he pulled the trigger of a gun. He always thought it got harder every time he pulled the trigger after that, a reminder of what he'd done. Blood splattered across his clothes and flesh splattered the wall of the store. A still warm corpse was strung up like a scarecrow as a warning for what was to come. The gang cheered for him as they left, welcoming him to their rank. 

At least he wouldn't need to buy ice cold soda after that, the echoing gun shot would be the start of years of luke warm beer and whiskey that burned so much he'd think the ice was fake. None of it could erase the copper taste from his tongue, though. Nothing could burn away the spot on his name. That night the gang leader helped him carve a notch on his pistol, an action that seemed to triple the weapons weight.

He wasn't a kid anymore, maybe he never had been a kid. All he knew was that no he had no choice but to be a man. Because cold steel didn't care how old you were when there was work to be done.


	2. Deadlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deadlock era

_I learned a lot when I was with the Deadlocks. Learned how to hold my liquor, how many cigarettes I could smoke before the ashy taste in my mouth made me sick, how to take care of a tattoo done with a makeshift needle in the back of a garage. Specifically, I learned that when you're in a gang you're in one of two groups: important and unimportant. I was lucky, my sharp eye made me important - never did understand how I do what I do, the gang nicknamed it "deadeye", it started as a joke but it was obvious it was their way of claiming me for the gang. I was their go to guy now: "Need a sharpshooter? Get McCree."_

Bank jobs were fun. The ridiculousness of robbing a bank never ceased to amuse him. But unlike in movies, the Deadlock gang didn't need to wear masks - they wanted everyone to know who they were. They'd roll up in motorcycles (motorcycles he did not have a license for) wearing crisp black leather with blood stained embroidery. The only thing McCree had that set him apart was that damned hat of his. Despite the disdain the gang seemed to have for his hat, they found it in themselves to set that hate aside for the good of the gang. McCree had been personally chosen for this job. The gangs best sharpshooter for a very important job. What the job was for specifically, he didn't know, he was just the lackey.

There was no need to yell or make threats, when they walked into the bank - everyone knew what was happening when the roar of the bikes had started. People laid on the ground and tellers cried out to tell them how to get into the safe before the gang got impatient. Some part of McCree felt that maybe he shouldn't be so amused by how frightened they got when the Deadlocks came to town, but he was just doing his job. At least that's what he tells himself to block out the crying people. While the others were grabbing the cash he'd watch the exits, his rusty little pistol gripped like it was the only thing keeping him alive. In a way, it was.

But you know what happens when you get cocky. The Deadlocks hadn't paid off this towns police yet and all of a sudden they had riot police raining down on them. Shattered glass fell like snow, people screamed and despite all these distractions - McCree fired a few quick shots. And dead men rained from the ceiling. McCree was used to the chase by now, he loved the chase,  and lived for the getaway. But the killing? Well, that was just another part of the job. In the end as long as they left the bank with bags of money slung over the shoulder of retreating Deadlocks, it didn't matter. He was important, and he had to stay that way.

The police rained hell down on them when they started to get away. One good shot clipped the shoulder of a fellow gang member, and made McCree see red. Literally. Time always seemed to slow when he did this, sometimes it gave him headaches sometimes he felt like he was about to black out - but it was part of the job. Six shots. Six bodies. And six shots he'd be forced to down later as celebration that he'd saved the heist. They left the bank behind them, with hundred dollar bills flying out behind them like in the cartoons. McCree had a bounty now, it was at $2,000. Not the most impressive price, but it'd buy you very nice things. If someone could claim it, that was.

The party had already started when they got back, and when the money hit he table the boss raised a glass in McCree's name. Icy glares from the fellow gang members who'd helped on the heist didn't stop him from feeling proud. He did his part, he was useful, he was important. Part of him wanted to instigate them, ask them what they would have done without him other than get gunned down by a trigger happy cop. He wasn't that dumb, though, and he sucked down the whiskey handed to him without question. He took the cigarette too, even though he could taste that it wasn't just tobacco in it. It was laced with something special, something that would make him forget the night and the ghosts of hands that he couldn't remember the owners of. No questions were asked, he just did what he had to do.

He did his job, and in the background of the party he could already hear the boss planning the next heist. 

"Train job? Get McCree."

* * *

  _I stopped being Jesse, I was Mccree now. The leaders relied on me a lot, leaders with an 's' - plural. I watched gang bosses come and go, each killed by their successor. And every time one got offed the gang got more violent. Probably because the new boss needed to prove themselves, to garner loyalty, and every time there I was near the top waiting for my next job. Loyal to the gang, loyal to the cause, but mostly loyal to the red skull branded on my skin._

McCree spoke Spanish better than he spoke English. He used that to his advantage most of the time. Made the bosses think he was to stupid to betray the gang. They knew couldn't read, but that didn't matter, he knew how to shoot and he knew how to count - that's all they needed from him. Secretly, he was a genius at mind math, and just because he couldn't tell you the street name didn't mean he wasn't smart. No one seemed to realize that you didn't get a bounty of $5,000 on your head if you weren't smart. But you didn't want to be smart, especially not when the gang boss currently in charge would do anything to keep people in line. 

He can't remember the last time someone used his first name, probably the shop owner he killed a few years back. Somehow it just added to his dumb kid image, McCree wasn't the name of an intellectual. It was the name of the kid who spoke broken English and did what he was told. The gang leader who initiated him has long since been dead, tied to the back of a truck and dragged across the desert sand, so he couldn't vouch for McCree anymore. And every time a new man takes ownership of the gang McCree swears that his time has come. That there was some grudge there about to surface. Apparently he was just to useful, though.

That's how he found himself standing in what might have once been a mans skull, staring at the new gang leader in wait. Gore dripped from the mans bloody bat as he wiped brain off his face. 

"Gather the boys McCree." They said.

"Yessir." He replied.

It was like being on a boat, if you didn't hold onto the rails you'd get thrown off into the waves. McCree already had a mental bet on when this new leader would upset someone in the gang. How long before another mindless betrayal. The gang liked the last boss, he was as easy going as you could get and he liked to let the liquor flow. New guy? He had a lot to prove. And he was ambitious. An Overwatch weapons shipment was going to roll through the desert and the gang wanted it.

McCree knew it was a bad idea, you don't paint a target that big on yourself. But he didn't say anything against it - that was an even worse idea. So he did as he was told, played the idiot, and sat up on top of a building and shot down Overwatch troops so the gang could swoop in to take the treasure. Overwatch isn't the same as local police, they retaliate. They shoot back and they have better guns.

The shootout lasted nearly two hours, but eventually due to their sheer numbers they managed to grab some crates and get away. Leaving behind a bloody field of dead Overwatch and Deadlocks alike. The new boss was an idiot. He knew his jig was up and he still tried to run. The gang found him with a duffel bag and his fists deep in the gangs safe, trying to getaway with as much as he could. McCree won the mental bet he made with himself.

The gang dragged him into the street while McCree sat back with a shitty guitar he found in a dumpster and strummed the strings to distract himself. Pretending he knew how to play the instrument while they started with beating the boss. Kicking at his body with steel boots, throwing him on the ground. They reduced a man who thought himself proud to a crying and screaming ball of hurt, and his cries echoed into the night. 

When they got bored of kicking they got the gasoline. It soaked into the mans clothes, and drenched his hair. It permeated into his very skin. Another gang member who'd been delegated to count their haul came up to him and reported the numbers, McCree would need to know for whoever took charge next. He stole a cigarette off him before he ran to go join the show. As they gang screamed at their ex-leader, he wondered if they ever resented having to respect someone half their age. As he drew the smoke into his lungs he decided he didn't care. 

A match was lit and the spark ignited. The screams intensified and like mockingbirds the gang echoed back with their screams of joy. Burning flesh smelled foul. McCree drowned himself in some whiskey to try and kill his scent. To lose himself in the burn he'd grown accustomed to. It was easy to see which man would take charge now, a long time member. He stood above the crowd rallying them to him. 

It doesn't matter to McCree, he sung softly in Spanish under his breath watching the fire. He just waited for his next job.

* * *

_Wasn't easy all the time, and as time went on - shooting down a helpless shop owner was probably the least evil thing I've done. Learnt my lesson, though, you don't play the hero. No matter how fucked the job, no matter how vile it makes ya' feel: you do as you're told. Or you'll find out what happens when gang members try to be good guys, I made that mistake once. Never did it again, couldn't afford too. No matter important you are to the gang they won't allow anyone to get in the way of business._

Over the years, McCree got used to the type of unsavory things he and the Deadlocks would do. His bounty had been upped again, a solid $8,000 was on his head. A couple hundred got added every time the gang did something particularly nasty. Killing a police chief who'd stopped doing as told was shot in the street. They'd beaten a man, who hadn't paid his protection money, to death in front of his family. Burned a woman alive in her store when she refused to sell to them. It only ever got worse. 

The gang had gotten sneaky too, motorcycles for day jobs and horses for the night. They'd gone to a ranch one night and took all the horses they needed. For himself, he stole a beautiful brown mare whose eyes were kinder than he deserved. McCree learned to loved that horse like he'd never loved before. He forwent his bike often in favor of that mare, and he'd give her sweet apples "donated" from the local market. He never got around to naming her but she was his. And it was atop her beautiful back that he rode off to another job. 

He knew little of the details, just where to be and when to be there. Transport of goods he was told, that's all he needed to know. In the dead of night the group assigned to the job galloped off to an old farmhouse, with lengths of rope in tow. A few of the thugs went into the house and a lone gun shot echoed through the night, nothing new - standard business. Moments later they came back out with the cargo, but what they brought out was not what McCree expected. No drugs, no guns, not even a lone flash drive with incriminating evidence they could use to blackmail someone with.

Three woman. Well one woman, two girls. A mother and her children no doubt. For the first time in a long he felt ill and an actual sinking sense of dread filled his belly. They tied the rope around their wrists, tight enough to hurt, and then shuffled them on top of horses.

"Where's the drop point?" One thug asked.

"Train depot, we have to hold onto them until midnight. That's when the train gets here."

"Let's ride."

Even his fair mare knew something was off, she grumbled at him when he climbed back on top of her. He said nothing as he rode after them, trying to avert his gaze from the pleading eyes that called to him. Away from the girl who looked his age. The ghosts of hands made his skin prickle as McCree imagined what would become of the women. Still they rode and the dust clawed at his feet as they rode into the night, leaving behind a body that wouldn't be found for days. 

McCree stood watch when they arrived at the depot, set up behind old abandoned train cars. The others had gone to get some drinks from a little bar across the way, leaving McCree alone with the women. Nausea burned in his throat, and he was careful not to look at them. It was all wrong. No fanfare was made, no sign had been left to signify that the Deadlocks had been responsible. This was new, and McCree hated it. He hated the sniffling and gasping breaths more. He was not a stupid man, he knew what would happen to these woman. Shipped far away on a train and delivered to men who saw property not people.

"Mama I'm so scared."

And that struck the final chord. Something etched deep in his very soul ached at those words. Like he'd heard them before or  more like he'd spoken them before. A burned down house he vaguely remembers living in next to an old, abandoned barn. He gave in. 

Swiftly he cut their ties and ushered them onto his beautiful mare.

"Go, and don't come back. Go far, far away."

"Thank you."

Panic filled him then. He could run. He could stay. The decision was made for him when he loud voices of his companions called through the night in anger - they'd seen the horse. Not like he had anywhere else to go anyways. He cut his cheek with his knife and started up on one of the other horses, yelling as if to pretend to pursue them. Before he could go anywhere he was pulled back down, his hat falling away into the dirt. As good as he was a shooter - he was half these men's size, so he'd have to rely on a silver tongue to try and save his skin.

They argued. Defending himself with the story he invented on the spot, McCree looked them in the eyes as the lies spilled from his lips. He was good at lying, he learned from the best, but Deadlocks weren't known for logic and even the greatest story in the world wouldn't save him from the anger of men who'd just lost their paycheck. Still he was almost shocked when the first hit landed. He wasn't shocked when the second came, or the one after that. McCree wasn't sure when he ended up on the ground, but he stayed there for awhile. It went on for what seemed like eternity, and for a moment the teen was sure his time had just run out. He wasn't that lucky.

Ribs cracked and a nose was broken so bad it'd never be straight again. Cigarette burns ran up and down his arms like deformed freckles. Teeth were missing, not like he could really notice through the amount of blood in his mouth. They left him in the dirt to walk back alone. The sun would rise upon him as he limped through the desert, leaving him with only his hat to be thankful for.

Hours later when he made it to the hideout it was clear everyone knew what had happened: he'd fucked up. But nothing happened, and the thugs who'd beaten him for his "mistake" sung his lie like a song. Honestly, he wasn't sure if they believed that the women had slipped out from under him or not, but he wasn't sure he cared. Men snickered at him, probably happy the kid who kept showing them finally got what was coming to him. Respect was lost, but it was almost worth it. For that thank you, it was worth it. No one had told him that before.

He owed those thugs a favor now, though. For not killing him. Watching them whisper to each other in the night, the sharpshooter knew that the favor would come sooner rather than later.

Let it come. It wouldn't happen again, he'd learned his lesson. And he never saw that horse again.

* * *

  _Things got worse and worse. Sure I got paid better, I got my own room instead of the crappy basement I had lived in for years - but I could feel it in the air._ _It was only a matter of time before I got knocked off my high horse. Someone always has your name on their list - and mine came with a prize. $10,000 big ones for the rat in the ugly hat. We got stupid, the new boss more violent and more reckless than ever. And he got us got. I knew eventually someone too important to be paid off, like we paid off the police, would come knocking on our door. And when they came, they were going to knock the door down._

It had been an obvious set up. But exhausted and beaten from the gauntlet of tasks the new boss had sent him on, McCree had notified it far to late to do anything about it. It ended where it had began, at that dusty old diner on Route 66. An Overwatch shipment was coming through, conveniently right next to the diner - their main set up. An open area, little cover. It should have been so obvious.

They were stupid. Because it wasn't Overwatch agents who burst from the back of the trucks supposedly filled with weapons. Soldiers clad in black who fought far more ferociously than any Overwatch playboy spilled from the trucks and into the desert like a swarm of locusts. Quick reflexes bought him a few seconds to take cover, as red filled his vision and he fired six rounds into the closest agents. For a moment he could see the pure shock on some of the agents faces, but he had no time to revel in their awe. He dove behind cover and his head span. Today would be a day his "deadeye" would cause a devastating headache.

Despite all their numbers and force the Deadlocks fell like flies. McCree held his own fairly well, beside a man who'd been in the gang nearly as long as McCcree himself had been. The two held out behind an overturned table in the diner. Shooting through what was left of the window to take out the seemingly never ending stream of darkly clad soldiers. So focused on the battle before them, they never heard the man sneak up on them. Until a knife had burst from the other gang members eye and his body slumped to the ground. McCree wasn't bad at hand to hand combat, but he wasn't good. He was a street rat at heart, he didn't know how to fight a man like this one. Trained and disciplined, completely silent as he beat McCree into the ground. He only managed to escape the hold when he jammed his fingers into the bearded mans eyes.  
  
Escape was a false hope. Blood soaked the ground, slipped McCree as he tried to run down the road, toward a town he used to buy soda in. He was drenched in sweat and blood, which made him feel like was wearing weights on his legs as he ran. Or maybe that was the weight of his little world finally coming crashing down. One clean shot through his leg knocked him down. And he heard the footfalls crunching through the gravel and dead plants towards him, he would die a cowards death. 

A long time ago he told himself when this day came he wouldn't beg, he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't died sobbing into the dirt like the gang members before him. The man flipped him over onto his back, using his foot as if McCree wasn't even worth the man using his hands on him. Gasps rattled out of his body, and he trembled. At the mercy of the man and the agents who'd gathered around to watch. 

"You're in a whole lot of trouble, cabron." He said gruffly, "Do you surrender?"

Loyalties fell away in a heartbeat as he felt his head nod frantically. He was pathetic. Wet hot tears ran down his face and he nodded. McCree surrendered. 

"Good."

He was carted away after that, why they didn't just kill him he doesn't know. As his body gasped and shuddered he couldn't tell if he was truly thankful for it or not. He'd done horrible things. There wasn't just blood on his name, his name was written in blood. He was a criminal, a monster. And at 17, he'd found his name on someone's list and they'd finally come for him. He didn't know where he was going or what would happen next.  

The only thing he did know, was that he wasn't good, he'd never been good. Good was the people who'd stood up to him and his gang. He was just another thing wrong in a world full of hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon, Chapter 3 "Blackwatch".
> 
> Also note, I'm not trying to imply Reyes is abusive or excessively violent. The point is that Jesse was a member of a violent gang, and Reyes had to stop them.   
> I don't think Reyes was an abusive man, but his job forced him to do things he was not proud of.


End file.
